Li_Huang's Xanga

Bits of Memories about My Chinese Family

Sun, 17 Mar 2013 01:10:20 GMT

The truth is: my family is my biggest inspiration. I come from a very off-the-wall Chinese-Filipino family. And I blame it all on my paternal grandfather Li Choi, who was also known as Henry Lee.

Now my grandfather, or Gua Kong as we've always called him was singularly the happiest person I've ever known. He had a quick smile and an even quicker laugh. He was a bear of a man who towered over everyone at 6 feet 4 inches. He must have had an offbeat sense of humor because he married my Gua Ma (grandmother in Chinese) Inez Gonzales, who only stood at 4 feet 11 inches... with heels.

According to family lore, they met in the noodle shop that my grandmother's father owned. Gua Ma was serving out dishes when Gua Kong accidentally touched her hand. They were forced to get married after that. That was considered normal during their time.

One of my fondest memories about my grandfather was the way he could always make people feel at ease around him. His favorite way of starting a conversation would be, “How is your goiter?” For people with goiter, this would of course, lead to a long dialogue about that person's medical history. For others who did not have this medical condition, it would lead to a few rounds of laughs.

Now my Gua Kong died at the age of 102. My A Yi (aunt) was the authority on Chinese traditions in our family, and she told us that we were not supposed to grieve for my grandfather. Rather, we supposed to celebrate his long and well-lived life. I was not sure whether it was by design or by coincidence, but my family certainly celebrated.

For Gua Kong's 3 day wake, relatives, friends, and his former business cronies flew in from all over the country, bearing food, drinks and even ampao (red gift envelopes) for the children. People were genuinely happy catching up with each other's lives. It was like a huge 3-day family reunion gone mad.

In the spirit of camaraderie (or over indulgence of food and drink,) people were suddenly volunteering to do things for the family. One person volunteered to deck out the cars that would be used during the funeral procession with flowers. An old family friend volunteered to hire police escort for the convoy of vehicles. Someone else promised to hire a band that would play all of my grandfather's favorite American marching band songs.

On the day when Gua Kong was to be buried, we were told not to look at his casket as it was being carried out of the church. A Yi said, by averting our eyes, we would free our grandfather from the temptation to look back and stay among the living. So when the few chosen men finally carried him out on their shoulders, Gua Kong almost stepped out of his casket.

Because he was big man, a couple of the men faltered under the weight of the casket. It almost tipped to the floor. Can you just imagine how difficult it was for everyone? The men were trying to rectify the problem without looking at the casket directly. The rest of us could only watch them in our peripheral vision.

As always during certain church functions, there was a photographer who managed to capture that moment. We had this one photo where the men were huddled on the right side of the church aisle. They were looking everywhere except the casket. In that same photo, one of my uncles stood a little to the left, with his eyes closed tightly. His hands were positioned in such a way that he looked like he was waiting for somebody... anybody to place the casket back on his right shoulder.

When we finally stepped out of the church, we were surprised to find the cars decked out in balloons – in huge, read and white balloons with the words “Happy Birthday!” printed on them. Apparently, someone got the wrong memo.

The police escorts were missing as well. Instead, there were 2 fire trucks from the Chinese firefighting brigade that were positioned at the start of the funeral procession.

And the band? The hired band that was supposed to play all of Gua Kong's favorite American marching band songs knew only one song. They played and kept playing the theme song of Hawaii 5-0.

(Note: for some of you who don't know, during the first day of the Taboan, we had a procession. The marching band there played the theme song of Hawaii 5-0... twice. And I was like: Gua Kong is that you?)

Despite all the bloopers that day, I think Gua Kong would have enjoyed his send off very much.

So this brings me to the question: why are there very few of us who write about the lighter side of being Chinoy? Many of our most prominent Chinese-Filipino writers prefer writing about the dramatic depictions of life in the Philippines.

I'm not saying that we should make fun of Chinoys. Of course not. No one wants that. But life is not just about drama, or tragedy, or the very outdated and stereotypical forbidden love affair between a Chinese and a non-Chinese person. There is humor to be found as well. There is always that other side of the story... the lighter side of life. And I believe this is pretty much under represented in Philippine Literature.

I believe one of the main problems of writers who write humorous pieces, Chinoy or otherwise, is this: no one takes us seriously.

Seriously.

What many people don't realize is that writing in this genre is a really serious affair. Humorous pieces almost always never win contests or get awards. At the same time, Chinoy living is full to the brim of funny anecdotes, light hearted stories, and even tenderness.

So hopefully, by bringing this issue out to the light, we can encourage more people to write about the lighter side of being Chinoy.

Thank you.

Delivered during Taboan 2013 February 8, 2013

Re: Writing Chinoy, Chinoy Writing

Miss Editor?

Wed, 06 Mar 2013 01:06:37 GMT

This is exactly how I feel when asked to become an editor for a month.

An editor's thoughts on difficult pieces: I feel like a bad butcher, hacking at paragraphs to get to the heart of a piece. I bring my cleaver down upon the work table. Sentences fall off the pages and unto the littered floor where words, letters and ideas are crushed beneath my feet. I feel as if the life blood of the writer is running down the table, and my face and body are soaked in its still warm essence. I hack and I hack, my fingers sometimes caught beneath the blade. In fits of frustration, I swing the cleaver over my shoulder and know that I am stabbing myself in the back as well. If only people knew that with every hack, I bleed too. I die a little at a time -- all for the sake of getting to the very heart of the butchered carcass that was once a writer's piece.

-- Editor that has no right to wax poetic, but has every right to axe poetry.

Go Ahead, Rain In On My Parade

Mon, 19 Nov 2012 23:31:34 GMT

I found this among the stuff I carried over from Manila. According to some incidental details, this piece was submitted to my Psychology I class in Dominican College on July 6, 2001. I was taking up Mass Communication then. There was no grade written on the paper but my professor commented at the bottom of the last page: “Did you really write this yourself? It is beautiful!!! I love the rain too, yet...” I love the fact that she used three exclamation points.

I edited this a little, as is my wont. There were a few misses here and there, as is also my wont. But overall, it remains almost as it first appeared. This piece is yet unpublished.

I shall be very honest about this. When our Psychology teacher asked us to write an essay about the most unforgettable moment of our lives, I drew a blank. Zip. Zilch. Nada. I had to throw away several drafts before I totally gave up.

You see, I've never climbed a mountain, or crossed a sea. I've never had those supernatural experiences that get documented in the X-files. I've had none of those heart-wrenching, soul-searching, life-changing experiences to boast about. True, I once did a head dive in Tagaytay, which earned me a fist-sized lump on my forehead, and I did an incidental split in front of my family, which they still talk about during gatherings.

But an unforgettable experience? Whoa.

I'm scratching my head as I am writing this down. Believe me, most of my experiences are totally forgettable and there are some not even worth mentioning. If I had my life flashing through before my eyes, I'd probably die of embarrassment by now.

But an unforgettable experience? Help!

Jeez. The rain outside is almost thunderous. I can't even hear myself think over the din. But I'm glad. I love the rain.

I love to hear the patter of raindrops on tin roofs. I love the unsteady stream of water dancing in the wind. I love to see the dark heavy clouds carrying their wet burden and the sun peering from somewhere in their folds.

I love the rain.

I remember this one time when I was left all alone at home. The rest of the family went to an amusement park for the whole day, and I volunteered to house sit. It started out as a very damp morning, and by midday, the rain was coming down in torrents.

Of course, the clothesline was loaded with almost dry clothes.

Of course, I had to run them into the house by myself.

Of course, I had to get drenched before I had the task accomplished.

It was glorious, I tell you. It was a carefree moment. (No, not the sanitary napkin kind of moment. Oh, never mind.) It was like commuting with Mother Nature herself. And if you disregard the fear of catching pneumonia for a moment, you'll feel that little-child-in-you delight running through your veins.

I loved that moment above everything else. The rain is still falling by the buckets outside and I am sorely tempted to run out and dance in the rain. But then I have tons of assignment to do and I still haven't figured out that one unforgettable moment in my life that my teacher wants. Besides, I do not – I repeat – do not wish to get sick now.

But the rain is there, dancing noisily up on my roof. The wind is fierce and the air is cold. I love it. I simply love it. I'm sorry if other people don't like the rain, or are too depressed about the storm, but their views will never be mine.

I love the rain. And I love the carefree moment it brings, sanitary napkins and all.

The Long Ishorts Op It

Sun, 11 Nov 2012 23:27:34 GMT

This is a work of fiction. It was published in the July 2012 issue of Life Today.

-----

“Iso, the long ishorts op it, I had tho blah, blah, blah...”

My “friend” Orange has been talking non-stop on the speaker phone for over 10 minutes now. Frankly, I could feel my life energy wasting away. She has managed to acquire my mobile phone number from someone (an unforgivable crime!) and is now updating me with everything that has been going on in her life. This is turning out to be a rather long monologue, since I have not seen or heard from Orange in 10 years.

“Priend,”she says, “thalking to you is like funching myself in the pace.”

I grunt in reply, which actually means, “I wish you would.”

This “friend” of mine always pops back into my life like a 5.5 earthquake: with very little advance warning, always unwanted and uninvited. Her cataclysmic visits wear me down, both physically and mentally -- not to mention the havoc she wrecks on my emotional state. In her wake, pieces of me are strewn all over the place and the long, painful process of pulling myself together always proves to be difficult and time consuming.

After each encounter, I take extreme measures to ensure that she never pops back into my life again (e.g. making everyone I know swear never to give Orange my new phone number or home address); or if she does, her visit will not be as devastating as the last. That, pretty much sums up my relationship with Earthquake Orange.

“I'm not the sharfest fencil in the fencil case, but I'm not scienthists!” She is reprimanding me for not informing her of my change of phone number. “I know you were hidings. I keep isending you thexts. Thexts costs money, and money, yes, money changes ebryting.”

Good old Orange. Obviously, she hasn't changed a bit. A minuscule part of me still finds her talent of shamelessly destroying the English language fascinating. Without the merest trace of shame, she confuses cliches, mixes metaphors, and invalidates idioms with impunity. She interchanges her f's with her p's, her b's with her v's, and her t's with th's. She also has the propensity to add the letter “s” to words in the singular form, and “i” before any word that begins with the letter “s.”

“Anywe, the long ishorts op it...”

She has been saying that phrase over and over, and I keep wondering when she would actually make her long story ishorts -- I mean, SHORT!

One of the worst things about talking to Orange is that: she can be quite contagious. I have a sinking feeling that my English writing and speaking skills would suffer greatly after this encounter with Earthquake Orange.

“Pine. Whateber. Ip that's my voss wants so vee ith.” Orange continues, heedless of any negation I may have. I keep thinking to myself: this girl is not about to stop; no matter how much I quake in my boots, or how hard I fall down in terror, or how deeply I would be buried under the rubble of her words with pieces of me strewn all over the place.

“I say tho my voss: it's easy por a camel tho needle a man than tho go tho heaben...”

Orange was actually a friend of a friend of a former classmate who introduced her to me way back in high school. I quickly discovered that her chattiness is the greatest thing I love to hate about her.

“Long ishorts op the istory...”

The Orange I remembered was short and lean as a post. She was one of those girls who can easily hide in a book cabinet with room to spare. She always had her hair cut short. Her face was somewhat skeletal in nature: from her high forehead, to her razor-sharp cheekbones, and lips so thin you can hardly see them. When she smiled, the skin on her face would pull so far back that most of her teeth would be exposed.

Someone had once commented that if Orange crossed her arms under her face every time she smiled, she would make the perfect icon of a skull over crossbones.

“... I can't cook an omelet without vreaking the eggs.”

“... he's so varking uf the wrong dog...”

“Really, thanks God por my healt.”

I am replying to her statements in monosyllabic grunts. My mind is too exhausted to care.

“Hoy! Rememver the firsts times we meet?” she asks suddenly without waiting for a reply.

Unfortunately, I do. That was the time I asked about the genesis of her name. She very candidly told me that her father had always wanted to name his daughters after fruits. At the same time, her father also kept making babies in an attempt to have a son succeed his name. After a couple of wives and a few mistresses on the side, Orange's father had 14 daughters and no son... yet. So after having named his older daughters with Apple, Cherry, Olive, Peaches, Strawberry, Grape, Lychee, Plum, Lemon, Raspberry, Cocoa, Pineapple, and Rowanberry, (not necessarily in that order,) my friend's father was left with the option of naming his youngest offspring with either Orange or Coconut.

Personally, I think that the name “Coconut” would have been more apt for Earthquake Orange.

“Ayun,” she switches to Filipino in the middle of her sentences with abandon, “Blah, blah, blah. Ewan ko ba. Pero, por me, I wants tho make the long ishorts op it na...”

I realized then that I didn't like Orange at all. I still don't. First of all, she never listens. She could go on and on and on about herself. She never wants to listen to anyone else.

Secondly, she said far too many times that I should have been named “Lilit,” which turned out to be an abbreviated form of “lilitsonin” or a pig destined for the roasting pit.

Lastly, she always seemed to hold me hostage to the situation. I simply do not have the guile to shut her out. Truth is: I never liked talking to Orange. But I also can't seem to slip in any word edgewise during our “conversations” to make her stop. I've tried putting down the phone on her once and she suddenly appeared on my doorstep, continuing her monologue where she left off. That destroyed my equilibrium even more.

“Rasfverry's voypriend isfred the rumor that I am fregnant. Istufid, no?” Orange encourages me for a reaction. I reply with a grunt that means, “No, it's not stupid,” but she's off talking again.

I remember this one time when my friends saw Orange sashaying unto the school corridor, obviously looking for someone to terrorize. There were four of us in the classroom and everyone tried to duck for cover. One classmate slipped behind the door. Another one squeezed under the teacher's table. Me and another friend were left with the option of contorting ourselves into the book cabinet. My arm could hardly fit into the wooden space, much less the rest of me -- even less, the two of us. We finally had to rely on our dramatic skills. My friend feigned faintness.

When Orange poked her head in the classroom with her conventional greeting of “Hoy!” I said I couldn't talk to her because I was going to escort my “unconscious” friend to the school clinic.

It should have worked.

It could have worked.

It would have worked, if only Orange had not insisted on tagging along.

By the time my “unconscious” but walking friend and I made it to the clinic, our ears had already bled from Orange's chatter. Then she left us with one whole slew of unkind remarks about our physical flaws, our mental faults, and everything in between.

The silver lining to that episode was that we were already at the entrance of the school clinic when we felt the effects of Earthquake Orange (e.g. migraine, physical exhaustion, severe depression, etc.) I realized later on that we could have endured less suffering if my friend wasn't feigning unconsciousness while we walked.

“Hoy, are you istill listening tho me?” Even over the phone, she knows when my attention is elsewhere.

“Op course,” I said. Oh! My! God! I meant to say, “Of course,” with an “f” and not with a “fee,” -- I mean “p!” P!

“Iso, anyways, my sisthers Istraverry isaid, I don't care. Iso thrue! The horses doesn't pall par prom the three.” Orange continued.

I thought: I wish they would. I wish that the horses would fall from the tree. Now! I hope they strike us both unconscious. It would be more merciful.

“Whatcha say?” she asked after I mumbled something incoherent. “Sooooo,” Orange manages to cut me off in mid-incoherence with her long “so.” “Yun nga. The long ishorts op it...”

Mercifully, my mobile phone's battery starts warning me of its low power supply. I interrupt Orange's monologue as I point this fact out to her using a series of painful grunts, similar to a panicky pig just about to be slaughtered for the roasting pit.

“What are you isayings?”

“I have to go now, Orange. My phone needs recharging.” I finally blurt out in exasperation.

“You always do this. Istof it. You're nogging me. You're always nogging me. Istof it!” Then she says in Filipino something to the effect that I'm very like her mother who nags her all the time.

“Nog! Nog! Nog!” she repeats. “You're like a chicken futting on an eggs.” Then she starts berating me about being a nagger. “Pine! I don't know why we are istill priends!”

I feel the ground shaking underneath my feet.

“You are so iselpish. All I want is a priend indeed. Iselpish!” She screams at me.

My ears are bleeding out but she wasn't finished with me yet.

“Next times, just funch me in the pace. Don't judge me anyway! You are the oldest istory in the vook! I'll be up, up in a way! You are iso whateber!”

I hear the line going dead.

I am now buried under the rubble of her words, and pieces of me are strewn all over the place. As I feel my life energy wasting away, I see skull over crossbones everywhere. It will take me a long while to find my equilibrium again.

So, to make the long story short: my “friend” Orange calls me up, and ruins me for the rest of my day. Period.

The Day I Met Juan Luna

Sat, 08 Sep 2012 15:15:04 GMT

This is my first attempt at fiction writing after a loooooooooooong time. After it was critiqued at the Ateneo National Writers Workshop, it was eventually published first in the Dagmay section of Sunstar Davao (August 19, 2012,) then in Life Today magazine (September 2012 issue.)

The Day I Met Juan Luna

It was a crappy, crappy day. My client for a vegan website had just requested a revision of all 100 articles I sent him, simply because we could not agree on two points: he thought #eggs were #fruits, and I thought he was crazy. No matter how hard I insisted that eggs were considered as animal-based produce, my client still wanted me to rewrite everything. He wanted to encourage his website visitors to include more eggs in their daily #diets. With much gnashing of teeth, frequent head shaking, and finally inevitable resignation, I inserted positive (though inaccurate) snippets into all 100 articles about the benefits of consuming eggs everyday for all vegans to read.

After that, I felt like creating my own website that would educate the world about the simple truth that eggs are not fruits, and that these shelled products actually emerge from the posterior of chickens, thereby making these animal-based. I had planned on dedicating the website to all vegans and crazy clients alike.

However, that would have proven to be an exercise in futility. So instead of being passively aggressive to my crazy client, and passing up the chance to jot down 100 ways of knocking sense into someone by using eggs as the weapon of choice, I decided that it was time to get some food shopping done. I made a mental note to buy real fruits, preferably the ones that were harvested from trees and not from the posterior of any animal.

I was still very much preoccupied with the #eggs-are-fruits debate when I arrived at the grocery section of the mall. From hindsight, I did notice the raggedy-looking man on my way in. He was wearing a heavy black coat that looked several sizes too big. He was also approaching people with what looked like a small slip of paper.

Many ignored him as I did. A few passing pedestrians made great efforts to avoid him altogether. I also remembered hearing a group of men giving out cat calls and jeers in the raggedy-looking man's direction.

The man slipped out of my mind as I perused the fresh produce shelves. I was feeling vindicated to find that there were no eggs in the fruit section. Instead, the eggs were right beside the dressed chicken stalls... right there in the animal produce section where it ought to be.

After my impromptu food shopping spree, where I bought several items that thankfully did not come from the posterior of any animal, chicken or otherwise, I boarded a jeep home. The driver of the vehicle apparently had way too much time on his hands, because he was willing to wait for more commuters to fill his seats.

I impatiently sat there for more than 15 minutes, fiddling with the handles of my grocery bag and hoping not to bruise any of my newly bought fruits. After several more excruciating minutes though, I knew that I was just about ready to lay my own human-based produce from my own posterior, just to express my impatience with this jeep driver who had way too much time in his hands. And trust me, the “human-based produce” would not come out in a shell.

That was when I noticed that the man in the over-sized black coat was making his way towards the jeep... approaching one pedestrian at a time. From my vantage point, I could see the frayed collar and ratty hem of his coat, the badly worn elbows, and pockets that were hanging on by the merest suggestion of threads. The man was also wearing a graying polo shirt that may have been white once, and black shoes so old and cuffed that the tips were mottled brown and white. The only somewhat decent thing that he was wearing was a pair of high-waisted jeans, which he belted with a cord of pale green plastic twine right under his rib cage.

What fascinated me the most was that: he was holding out that piece of paper to anyone who approached him. When people tried to take the paper to examine it, he would yank it back and start anew with someone else.

Such strange action also aroused the curiosity of every other passenger in that darn jeep. After all, we had nothing better to do than to wish for the driver to finally get a move on. And I had nothing better to look forward to than another eggs-are-fruits related request from my crazy client.

The older woman sitting beside me started wondering aloud, offering suggestions as to what the raggedly-looking man was up to. Someone else pitched in and soon, a very loud and lively discussion was in full swing inside the jeep.

Someone said that he must be a beggar asking for money. But we all saw that the man in the black coat wasn't taking any coins. Someone conjectured that our subject was probably an over zealous preacher, but that still did not explain the piece of paper he was showing everyone. I heard the words, “nabuang” (gone mad) and “binuangan” (insane) frequently.

After several more minutes, of which I was already contemplating on buying 100 pieces of eggs and hurling them at the driver who had way too much time on his hands, the raggedly-looking man came close enough to the jeep that we could actually see what he was holding out to people. It was an old, crumpled postcard that had already frayed at the edges from too much handling.

The older woman sitting beside me then (very boldly, I thought) called him over and asked (in Bisaya, which was the local vernacular) what he was doing. The man, probably in his 40s or 50s with a long, lean, and lined face topped with a crew cut, peered through one of the jeep's windows and started speaking in gibberish.

His voice was oddly high-pitched. His tongue seemed much too large for his mouth. All we could really hear from him were words that sounded like “wah-ta-twa-fa-fa-wah” repeated at irregular intervals. He kept pointing at himself then at the postcard, which upon closer inspection, bore the painting of the iconic #Spoliarium that was created by #Juan Luna: one of the more famous Filipino artists of all time.

The young woman sitting closest to the window tried to hand the raggedy-looking man a few coins, which the latter refused with gusto. He then focused all his communication efforts on the older woman sitting beside me. And there ensued something like a game of 20 questions, where my seat mate would inquire and the man in the black coat would say yes or no.

The first question was blatantly offensive. “Are you crazy?” to which the man answered no.

“Do you want money?” Again, the answer was no.

Referring to the postcard, my seat mate asked, “Is that yours?” To which the answer was a vigorous nod and a large smile from a mouth with the barest suggestion of teeth.

Soon, the other commuters in the jeep were offering inquiry suggestions to the older woman sitting beside me. Questions were sometimes acute, other times irrelevant, and given in a jumble of the local tongue, Filipino, English and even a combination of all three. Some of the questions went like:

“Do you have a family living nearby?” (asked in Bisaya.)

“Have you taken a bath today?” (asked in Filipino and English.)

“Why doesn't ice cream melt in the North Pole?” (asked in Bisaya and English.)

All the questions were met with either a nod or a shake of the head, a few “wah-ta-twa-fa-fa-wah” thrown in, but always with that continuous and incessant referral to the postcard in his right hand. Finally, it came to a point where the man's story seemed as if he was trying to convince us that he painted the Spoliarium himself.

“Ask him if his name is Juan Luna,” I whispered to my seat mate. The answer was a definitive “yes.” Then, for some unknown reason, the man in the black coat applauded and gave us all the thumbs up, while laughingly yelling: “wah-ta-twa-fa-fa-wah.”

For the same unknown reason, all of us sitting inside the jeep were compelled to applaud and cheer as well. A few even managed to say something similar to “wah-ta-twa-fa-fa-wah” while a couple of commuters returned the thumbs up sign to the raggedy-looking man. I found myself happily clapping as well.

As the man in the black over-sized coat walked away, his mission of apparently identifying himself to the general public accomplished, I had my seat mate ask him a parting question.

“Are eggs fruits?”

The answer was a definitive “no,” with more clapping and more thumbs up sign for everyone.

Finally, the jeep started moving. The long ride home was filled with that happy chatter among strangers thrown together by chance, aided by that strange fellow in the black coat who believed he had created the Spoliarium. Some one commented that only a handful of people today could claim that they have met Juan Luna in the flesh, and that we should be proud. I had to agree.

More than anything though, I felt vindicated once more.

If Juan Luna says eggs are not fruits, then it must be so. I intend to tell all vegans and crazy clients of that simple truth. After all, who would dare argue with the great Juan Luna? I could still see the man in my mind's eye, nodding in approval, applauding and giving everyone the thumbs up sign.

I should really thank the jeep driver too. If ever I see him again, I'll try to give him 100 pieces of eggs just for having way too much time on his hands. And if the great Juan Luna is there, I just might be persuaded not use the eggs to knock some sense into the driver.

An Open Letter to Ms. Long Lean Limbs

Mon, 06 Aug 2012 10:33:15 GMT

Dear Ms. Long Lean Limbs,

Right off the bat, I would like to say that I have this unwavering need to decline your friend request on this social network site that we both subscribe to. For one thing, I have no idea who you are. At the same time, I doubt it very much that you know anything about me at all.

The truth is: before I saw your friend request in my message box, I was living a boring virtual and real life existence. I was actually pretending that the articles I was writing about would somehow change world views and rewrite history, despite the fact that my client had limited my online literary expertise to: how to cure athlete’s foot, and how to avoid smelly armpits, and how to eliminate other yeast-friendly environments on the human body.

In any case, your request to be my “friend” brings me back to my senses. Like most people who are over-saturated with useless information about smelly feet, perpetually damp armpits, and itching in places that are too embarrassing to scratch in public, the first thing I do is to peruse your social network profile.

I know. I know. Most people online would simply click the accept button and be done with it.

I have never subscribed to that practice, though. Blame it on bacterial growth or fungal infection or yeast developing in places where the sun never shines (not mine!) But I need to know if you are indeed someone I have once interacted with before I willingly suffer
through your status updates, your invitations to play silly online games, and your recommendations to try harmful programs that could ultimately ruin my computer software.

Unfortunately, aside from your unfamiliar name, the only thing I could access on your profile is a picture of your body, taken from the neck down with full emphasis on your long, impossibly lean legs. I must admit your seductive, albeit headless, pose on that black leather lounge chair is quite a come-on. I’m not a leg connoisseur myself, but you do have impressive limbs. I have to give you that.

Even your arms seem thin enough to make me wonder if you have enough skin, bone, and muscle to actually still own a pair of armpits.

Staring at your profile picture with your exotic sounding name, I began asking myself a long series of questions, like: have we met before? Are you a former client of mine or a fellow web content writer? How do you even know me?

Then my train of thought went: do you suffer from athlete’s foot? Do you get damp underarms that give off a nasty smell? Is your seductive sitting stance an indication that you suffer from yeast infection? Are those the reasons why you want to be my “friend”?

Admittedly, there was this one moment when I became jealous of your shapely, lean limbs. I look at my arms, and the first thing that comes to mind is: ham – Christmas ham, to be overly specific. I look down at my legs and feel the need to weep. From this vantage point, I can’t see much. My stomach is in the way—probably from eating too much ham. I extend my legs in front of me and the only description that I can give them is: short, stubby stumps.

Then I did what any normal, rational and sane person would do: I tried to imitate your seductive, headless pose.

I must say, failing spectacularly had never been so much fun.

First, I tried a really low camera angle. It showed my rather squat, square-shaped feet, and a pair of calves and thighs that could be rightfully classified under “regular ham” and “jumbo,” respectively.

After that, I tried a chest high shot to achieve that headless look.

All I got was a shot of my ample midsection, my chest, and meaty arms that look like – what else? – ham! On closer inspection, I noticed that my upper arms were attached to four fleshy folds that look like separate armpits on their own. No, wait! Make that six! No, that’s not right either. It’s more like I have two armpits on the left and three on the right.

What?

Apparently, my five-armpit picture was a result of poor lighting, blurring my right side, and a sitting posture not meant for people with ham-like arms. After that, I rummaged under my arms a bit to make sure I wasn’t hiding extra limbs there.

My last shot was the worst. It was knee high and showed everything my Mother said never to exhibit in public. Aside from ham-like arms and jumbo thighs, the picture showed a triangular place where the sun never shines.

Then, for reasons known only to you, Ms. Long Lean Limbs, you sent me another private message that said you wanted to acquire 5,000 social network “friends” by the end of the month.

Ah. Well, that explains a lot.

We obviously have never met before. You were never a client of mine or a web content writer I’ve previously worked with. And you certainly do not know anything about me other than the fact that we use the same social network site.

If that is the case, I would like to extend my thanks for considering me to be a possible addition to your massive list of people you do not know. I wish you all the best, Ms. Long Lean Limbs. No, I still won’t accept your friend invitation because I am extremely busy changing world views and rewriting history: one smelly foot, one damp armpit, and one problematic nether region at a time.

If ever you need an extra pair of armpits though, I have a pair plus one to spare.

Sincerely Not Yours,
Ms. Short Stubby Stumps

Cheesecloth and I (Underwear Misadventure)

Tue, 04 Oct 2011 23:41:35 GMT

When it comes to reminiscing about one’s childhood, most people would not look back, fondly or otherwise, on the underwear they have worn over the years. But since I was never really in the category of “most people” but rather inthe “weird ones,” I would like to share a few thoughts on this particular subject because it has been percolating (or more aptly:fermenting) on my mind for the past 2 months.

Recently, a friend posted his embarrassing underwear moments on his blog site. Funny enough, while I was reading his article, all I could think of was this particular pair of undergarment that has haunted me from 4^th grade,all throughout high school, and even up to now.

CHEESECLOTH

Generally, people do not give their panties specific names. But then again, I have always been weird and because that particular occasion warranted it, I have named one specific pair of mine as Cheesecloth. Cheesecloth actually came into my life as a great looking panty. My mother bought me this apple green colored underwear which was decorated with tiny dark blue colored butterflies. Like most of my undergarments during that time,it was waist high and (as my mother kept insisting) covered everything that needed to be covered, including the lower part of my ribs, my bellybutton and all parts of my behind.

I actually loved Cheesecloth. So much so, that after two years of favoring it over the rest of my panties,I had worn it down to cheesecloth like consistency; hence the name.By the time I was in 6^th grade, Cheesecloth had degenerated into the thinnest underwear fabric known to man. If you folded it up into 3 sections, you could still see through to the other side. This underwear also had garters on its leg openings which had already snapped shortly afterwards. This left the fabric freely flapping down there whenever I ran. In other words, only the waist band held Cheesecloth up whenever I wore it.

As I entered my first year in high school, I finally accepted that Cheesecloth had served its time. But for the life of me, I could not bear to throw it out. So it sat therein my underwear drawer and was used as sparingly as possible. By“sparingly,” I meant: using it only when I no longer had any other clean underwear to use.

However, subsequent use of Cheesecloth proved to be embarrassingly calamitous -- to my dignity, that is; and oh yeah, to certain parts of my anatomy as well.

One time I wore Cheesecloth underneath my one-piece bathing suit. I figured that since it was so thin, no one would notice. I actually had more fun in the water since the undergarment’s lack of garters in the leg openings gave me more freedom to splash about and I was not afraid of exposing female parts that should never be shown in public.

But when I rose from the water,Cheesecloth hung out like curtain draperies from both leg openings of the bathing suit. Worse, I had not noticed that I was walking around with droopy underwear because I was wearing a vest like floatation device. Someone else had to point it out to me.

Let’s just say that it was one of those moments when I seriously considered living underwater for the rest of my life.

FATEFUL P.E. CLASS

Although there are other misadventures I have had with Cheesecloth, the one instance that finally made me decide that this particular pair of panties had to go happened in 2^ndyear high school. Due to a whole week of rain, I ran out of clean,dry underwear on P.E. day. I distinctly remember that the incident happened on a Thursday.

It was a choice between using a dirty pair and having to make do with Cheesecloth. Naturally, I chose the latter. Unfortunately, the underwear waist band finally snapped when I pulled it up, giving me a third improbable choice of going commando on P.E. day.

I couldn’t do that of course,especially since our P.E. teacher during that year was relentless when it comes to physical exercise. She was known to make students do duck walks the entire length of the gym, jog up and down the bleachers, and perform jumping jacks like your life depended on it.Her favorite sport was volleyball which I totally sucked at, and she hardly gave us time to practice kickball which I was somewhat good at.

Not so brilliantly, I decided to liberally use safety pins to hold Cheesecloth up. But no matter how hard or creatively I pinned the fabric together, the panty kept sliding off. It was always in inevitable danger of sliding down to my knees like curtain draperies if I did something physically strenuous,like breathing.

Since I am prone to do weird things and due to the desperate need to WEAR underwear -- any underwear to school, I decided to pin the useless waist band unto the middle part of my P.E. shirt. By that time, Cheesecloth’s loose fabric covered most of my midsection including the lower part of my ribs, my entire stomach area, and parts of my behind down to about 3 inches of my upper thighs.

Since the shirt was normally hidden under a dark blue jumper (which in my school was used in lieu of jogging pants,) I decided that I had a workable solution to my underwear problem. The only drawback was that: every time I raised my arms, my undergarment rode up my female parts that should never be rode up in. I decided to keep my arms down for the rest of the day. I mean, in my P.E. class, I could ask to be a baseman in a game of kickball which would mean, I could catch balls thrown at me at waist height.

Unfortunately, my P.E. teacher had a different idea. She made us do jumping jacks for six sets at 24repetitions each, before and after the volleyball game as a form of warm up and cooling down exercises. Then she decided, on that particular day alone, that all those who sucked at this particular sport should do extra work spiking (well, trying to spike) the ball over the net.

I vividly remember that memorable Thursday because I was sore all throughout Friday in places I should never have been sore in. By Saturday morning, I was feverish with soreness. By Sunday, I officially hated P.E. classes.

GETTING RID OF CHEESECLOTH

As soon as I came home that fateful Thursday, I gave Cheesecloth (all torn up from the safety pins, the jumping jacks and the overhead volleyball spikes) an ignominious dismissal. I threw it in my room’s trash can. What can I say? I was thoughtless then… and sore… and humiliated… and sore… and pricked by pins… and sore.

Did I mention, being sore?

Little did I know that Cheesecloth would take a life of its own and punish me unmercifully for its shameful (and unwashed) eviction from my underwear drawer.

A few days after saying farewell to Cheesecloth, it came back -- newly washed, dried and neatly folded.It was actually sitting proudly on top of my other newly laundered panties. I asked my Mother about it and she thought I had accidentally thrown out my favorite pair of underwear, so she rescued it.

Right then and there, I knew I was in for a long, hard fight. My Mother never actually threw out anything if she could help it. If any object at home was still serviceable, my mother kept it. I knew I had to find sneakier ways of getting rid of Cheesecloth.

I once surreptitiously inserted this particular pair of undergarment in a bag of old clothes that my Mother had collected for donation to kids in an orphanage. I figured that someone would find Cheesecloth still “serviceable,” either as a tofu strainer or a cheap lamp shade fabric. A few days later, it was back. It was sitting on top of my panty pile like it was mocking me. Worse still: I saw minute stitches where my Mother had darned the holes the safety pins made during P.E. class.

I then rumpled Cheesecloth up and stuck it into the pile of rags that my mother kept in her cleaning cabinet.I mean, as a piece of rag, it can still be considered as serviceable,right? Apparently, my Mother had a different notion of underwear serviceability because Cheesecloth came back, all washed, dried,folded and obviously steeped in fragrant fabric conditioner.

Another not so brilliant notion came tome. I gave our housekeeper Cheesecloth to use as a floor rag. She was looking for something to use while she waxed the floor. I told her that my loose and old underwear had already outlived its serviceability and had to literally beg her to please, please,(heaven help me) PLEASE use it. She grudgingly took Cheesecloth. I waited until she poured the red wax on the fabric and smeared it allover the wood floor. I thought that was the end of it.

I checked my underwear drawer religiously after that. I was making sure that Cheesecloth would not miraculously resurrect itself.

Unfortunately, it did… and on Easter morning too. I opened my underwear drawer and there sat Cheesecloth.It was shockingly clean, like it was bleached and purged of all of my wrongdoings. I picked it up by its useless waist band and held it above my head (which was possible because I had worn a new pair of underwear that did not ride up my female parts when I raised both arms.)

Was this a sign? What message was Cheesecloth trying to convey? Was it thinking of other ways of punishing me for my transgression? Heaven help me!

I finally decided to smuggle that darn piece of underwear outside the house and throw it someplace else. I wrapped Cheesecloth in several sandwich bags and stuffed it in one of my knapsack’s pockets. I hatched an abysmal plan of throwing it inthe trash can of my homeroom classroom when everyone else had left for the day.

The bad news was that: some of myclassmates decided to stay a while longer when the final bell rang. I pretended to catch up on my homework assignments while inwardly wishing that they would leave already.

By the time everyone was ready to go home, the janitor was already sweeping the floor of the classroom. I hastily threw the sandwich bag which contained Cheesecloth into the trash can and made a mad dash for the door. I must have looked suspiciously weird because in my peripheral vision, I saw Mr. Janitor pick up the bag. He tried to peel through the layers of plastic.

I scampered out of there faster than you can say “floatation device!”

CHEESECLOTH’S ONE LAST SALVO

I would like to say that the story of Cheesecloth ended there, but it didn’t. Mr. Janitor did not return my underwear to me, but it still managed to come back in another way.

Two years later, after our high school graduation ceremony, a few of my batch mates and I returned to campus to finish and polish up the yearbook. We asked the groundskeeper to lend us tables and chairs that we could work on. The elderly man was more than obliging. After a few minutes of waiting, we had our workstations set up.

Mr. Groundskeeper started wiping the surfaces. I noticed that the rag he was using looked overly familiar-- with its thin fabric, the almost imperceptible butterfly designs and the grimy but still noticeable apple green color. One of my batch mates jokingly asked the man if he was using old underwear as a rag and he said yes. He even held it up for everyone to see.

I tried to laugh along with everyone,but I knew Cheesecloth was showing me its deplorable condition. It was like having a finger pointed straight at me with the unspoken message: “Look how thoughtless you are! You did this to me! Look at what I have become!”

Fortunately, that was really the last day I saw Cheesecloth. In the back of my mind though, I feel like it would appear again if I visited the campus once more.

EPILOGUE

During the percolating / fermenting process of this article, I was sorely tempted to tentatively title this piece as: “The Panty Ghost of P.E. Class.” It was supposed to start with: “Twas the night before Thursday P.E. class, when all through the underwear drawer…” But everyone would know I ripped it off from somewhere and that never really sat well with me, even with nice fitting underwear on.

In any case, right after I thought I successfully (albeit painfully) gotten rid of Cheesecloth, my Mother decided I needed new underwear. I came home from school one fateful afternoon and found a box filled with 6 pairs of panties. I tried one on.

The new underwear was made of very stretchy material and about 10 times larger than my body dimensions.If I wore the waistband at the appropriate place, the lower part of the panty hung well below my knees. I could sit cross-legged with my both my ankles on the floor and with both legs comfortably folded within the underwear fabric; with room to spare at the sides for my knapsack, my underwear drawer and probably all sorts of floatation devices known to man.

If I pulled the waist band up to my shoulder blades, it covered most of my chest area, my back and all parts of my behind; with room to spare for my Mother, my 2^ndyear P.E. teacher and that friend of mine who made me remember all about my misadventures with Cheesecloth.

I didn’t know if my Mother bought me new panties that would double as one piece bathing suits, or if she expected me to grow into those. In any case, I told my Mother that I can not, will not, and shall not wear those even if my life depended on it. I mean, getting rid of Cheesecloth was hard enough; getting rid of 6 pairs of panties that could swallow me whole would be the death of me.

But then again my Mother never actually threw out anything “serviceable.” I have this premonition that one day I’ll open up my underwear drawer and find 6 pairs of panties pointing their fingers at me saying, “Look at what we have become!”

Heaven help me!

Anthologized, Finally!

Mon, 30 May 2011 00:41:53 GMT

Last Saturday, we attended the launching of "The Best of Dagmay," of which one of my essays (creative non-fiction) made it. It's the first time any of my works have been anthologized which makes me eternally happy. I was so excited about the whole thing that I actually arrived too early. I blame that on the 6 (or more) cups of coffee that I drank throughout the day. Having been caffeine free for many months, and spending the entire night writing articles for my client, I overdosed on coffee hoping that I won't fall asleep on the way to the venue.

(l-r) Dr. Macario Tiu, Ms. Joanna Cruz, me (covering my large
tummy with a copy of the best of Dagmay) and
Mr. Ricardo de Ungira

Fortunately, a friend had arrived earlier that I did, and we caught up on each other. I was also very happy to see familiar faces arriving one at a time. We had a great chat, while trying to burn off a few calories of excited energy.

When we finally found our seats, we found several luminaries of the writing scene already there. Dr. Macario Tiu (love him to pieces) was seated in our row. Occupying the front row were: Mr. Ricardo de Ungria and Ms. Aida Rivera Ford (my absolute favorite!) Ms. Joanna Cruz arrived a few minutes after the proceedings have started, while Tita Lacambra Ayala (we're not worthy!) caught the tail end of the program.

Ms. Joanna Cruz asked me to read an excerpt of my work, which I think I really bombed. I was too high on coffee to remember what exactly I said. But I do remember proclaiming into the microphone something like: "I love you, Ma'am Aida!"

Fortunately, that made Ma'am Aida Rivera Ford take notice of me. Afterwards, she actually asked me for my name and number, and promised me a copy of her upcoming book. Yey! I may have forgotten to thanks her properly, but I think I did ask her to adopt me.

Before everyone broke off for refreshments, Ms. Teresita Guillen finally arrived. She was the former dean of the university I attended. She came just in time for noodles, sandwiches and pastries.

(l-r) Julian dela Cerna, Ms. Joanna Cruz, Jeffrey Javier,
Paul Gumanao, and Vanessa Almeria. Ms. Joanna Cruz
was our moderator for the Davao Writers Workshop in 2009.
Everyone else in this picture were fellows of said workshop.

All in all it was a great night. :) I know this doesn't really make sense right now. I'm still high from last Saturday's book launching.

How Not To Exercise in the Morning

Sun, 17 Apr 2011 09:11:24 GMT

Working at home and basically having my back side literally glued to the computer chair for more than 18 hours a day is not only detrimental to my sanity, but it also makes those little figures on the scale increase rapidly. Of course, the word “little” here is relative -- and so is “sanity.” It has come to a point where I have to cheerily greet, praise loudly and then apologize to the weighing scale before I get on it, hoping that the machine would reciprocate my effusive demeanor by shaving off 1, 2, or preferably 150 pounds. After weeks and weeks of doing this and getting nothing but an escalating series of results, I have come to one conclusion: the darn thing was broken.

Then my clothes started getting tight again. Certain pieces of undergarments begun to pop at the seams. I was glad enough to blame the shrinkage on the new laundry soap I was using.

It took a total stranger to finally make me realize that I was gaining weight and fast. As I boarded a plane bound home to Davao, the airline clerk processing my ticket asked me, “Ma'am, how many months are you pregnant?” Gah!

I did a double take and babbled something about not sustaining a new life form in my ample midsection, other than a possible infestation of intestinal bacteria. I was so flustered that I think I even went on saying something like I'm not a viable candidate for immaculate conception -- or something to that effect. I remember vaguely that I did make a reference to not harboring an alien embryo in my internal organs. At one point of that conversation, I must have blacked out because I don't remember how I made my exit. But I do remember a brief moment when the clerk gave me the evil eye. I think she was about a second away from asking if I was suffering from any form of mental disorder, and whether or not I should be out in public at all.

Anyway, I decided to exercise lose weight. And by “exercise” I mean having doing more other than shuffling back and forth to the bathroom and the computer room while trying to stay awake in between. With my work schedule though, I found this rather difficult to do. But I did manage to lose a couple of pounds here and there. Of course, the word “lose” is relative here and so are the words “a couple of pounds.”

For my first exercise, I went online. I thought I would need a lot of guidance in the workout department because frankly, I didn't know any exercise regimen other than swimming and brisk walking.

Swimming was out of the question, of course. The only body of water within my immediate vicinity was a creek, which had a very rocky bed and water that was only a foot deep. Besides, the only people I ever see near the water are kids trying to catch toads.

Unfortunately, the only piece of swimsuit I currently own is colored dark green with spots of black and yellow. It thought it looked cute when I first bought it. But if I wore that and started doing breast strokes in the shallow creek, those kids might think I'm the biggest toad in the world. Or worse, I would be the biggest pregnant toad in the world. No, worse still: they might actually try to catch me and haul me back to the airline clerk so that she could give me the evil eye again.

I searched the web for exercise regimens I could try. I downloaded a few exercise videos which I found too tiring to watch. At the end of the day, I was so beat I ended up sleeping instead... right there in front of the computer.

FYI: I did try out a few of those exercises, particularly the belly dancing workout. I reasoned, since I have more belly than was necessary, I might as well go for a bit of tummy jiggling. Unfortunately, the 2 ladies teaching the dance moves apparently had muscles that I never knew existed. When they said to “move only your right hip, gracefully up, down, up, down,” they did this dainty movement that yes, moved only their right slender hips.

When I tried doing the same, I had to move my entire right side. My hip wasn't cooperating, so all the the muscles from the right side of my face, down my shoulder and to my right calf had to pick up the slack. I certainly wouldn't call my movements as “graceful.” I think it was more in the vicinity of “self induced muscular spasm while being electrocuted at irregular intervals.” At the end of one session, I was suffering from a full body twitch similar to a toad on drugs.

After twitching indefinitely, I decided to give up on those darn video exercises and do brisk walking instead. This means that I actually had to set a particular time of the day to go out and walk anywhere but my apartment's interior. I decided early morning -- like crack of dawn early morning would be best. So I put on my walking shoes and headed out. Now, this yielded better results.

For one thing: I discovered that I could actually walk faster, get my heart really pumping and sweat a lot if there was a pack of street dogs literally hounding my every step. But I think the sweating part came more from the fear of being mauled by mangy canines than the actual workout.

Secondly: I get to meet a lot of interesting people, so to speak. On the fourth day of brisk walking around town, I almost jumped out of my skin when I saw several pinpricks of lights in the distance, eerily floating toward me. Then I heard human voices mumbling in a singsong manner. If it weren't for the pack of dogs at my heels, I would have made it all the way back to my apartment in 2 seconds... flat. You could have probably timed it too, since I would be screaming at the top of my lungs all the while.

It turns out that a group of ladies were holding a dawn rosary procession. I stood by the side of the road to let them pass. After a few minutes, I simply had to go home. I can assure you: nothing can give you a full body twitch complete with heart palpitations and severe exhaustion than the thought of meeting ghosts on a darkened street.

There was also this very “interesting” guy from my neighborhood. During my early morning walks, I have encountered him several times drunkenly and loudly (but very happily so, with much laughing and hugging) talking to the wooden electrical poles at the side of the road. Since I'm not really into such encounters, I've tried to avoid contact with him. I choose different routes every time, but he seems to pop up everywhere I go.

One time, I was heading back home after brisk walking with the darn dogs, when I saw Mr. Happy talking to the electrical pole that was nearest my apartment. He saw me and waved, then started weaving towards me with arms flopping everywhere and a happy, inebriated face. Naturally enough, I tried weaving away from him, which was fairly easy to do if you have mangy mongrels dogging your every step.

When he was only a couple of feet away, he started talking to me. I could not understand a word he was saying, but he was laughing all the time so I figured he was saying something positive. Besides, I was too preoccupied to listen. I was trying to keep the dogs between him and me, just in case.

Unfortunately, Mr. Happy was determined to carry a conversation with me, and I could not walk to my apartment because I was afraid of him camping right outside my door. So I walked away in another direction, with the dogs and Mr. Happy several steps behind me.

After that, I decided that I really, really need to lose weight. If there's anything worse than being mistaken as pregnant (when I'm not,) or as a toad in the creek, or as dog chow for mangy mongrels, its being mistaken for an electrical pole. But maybe walking around town is not for me. I'm now thinking of going to the airport and doing my exercises there. I'm now steeling myself not to have any form of self induced muscular spasm when the airline clerk gives me the evil eye.

Question: what's the funniest exercise you've tried that really bombed? Haha!

Chraw

Sun, 21 Nov 2010 18:34:56 GMT